


Crucial Differences

by copyallcatsandacrobats (ordinaryalchemy)



Category: Psych
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, One Shot, except when he doesn't get his cake, henry is henry about a case, lassie can look the other way sometimes, major realizations, shawn is amused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinaryalchemy/pseuds/copyallcatsandacrobats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry and Lassiter have some news for Shawn, Lassiter figures out Shawn's secret, and Henry says something aloud for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crucial Differences

**Author's Note:**

> I...don't even know? Apparently this just kind of happened. Probs would take place around the middle of season two.

Shawn was, he had to admit, a little more than slightly concerned when he shut off his bike at his dad's house and had to park it next to Lassiter's Crown Vic in the driveway. Just a hair past slightly, really, because while the stuffy beanpole man who headed the Santa Barbara team of detectives didn't like him (and _hated_ the way Shawn constantly solved cases under his nose), he wasn't really that much of a threat, not when the chief semi-regularly called Shawn and Gus in to consult on cases. Why Lassiter was at his dad's house tonight, though, he didn't know—all he knew at this point was that if Lassie ruined steak-and-cake night, Shawn was going to tie-dye all of his Civil War costumey things.

He came into the house to find Lassiter in the armchair, jacket off and calmly sipping a drink, while his dad had his back to the door and fussed with some of his fish crap. “I'm sorry, I must have the wrong house,” Shawn said loudly, and when his father turned around, he pointed to Lassiter. “I don't remember that being part of the living room set you were talking about building. Did you pick up a new kit? I'm afraid to ask what science has done.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, Shawn. Sit down—there's some, uh, news.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, going to the sofa and wondering how obvious it would be if he tried to text Gus that the plan to sneak into the recently robbed toy store's office after dark was off. He _knew_ he should have stuck to his guns and attempted to hide in the playhouses a la the Sticky Bandits in Home Alone 2. “Lassie-face,” he greeted. “What brings you this way?”

“I'm hungry,” Lassiter said.

“I told you, I'll get dinner started in a few minutes,” Henry told him. He went to the other chair and sat down, but near the edge. “Shawn. There's something you should know.” He frowned, paused, and then started again. “A few months ago—hey, do you remember when Carlton and I went fishing?”

“Um, yeah? Only because you gave him my custom... something... rod.” He made a face. “And my old hat. Is there any more of my stuff you were going to give him, because it's a little creepy.”

“Nobody wants your Pogo Ball or your Teddy Ruxpin,” Lassiter said. “Least of all me.”

“You're just jealous that you never had a magical bear friend.”

“I'm not taking any more of your old junk to the Goodwill,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. “I'm talking about _fishing_.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Shawn said. “My bad. But you're kind of always talking about fishing.” He paused. “And what does fishing have to do with Lassie? I thought you just went the once.” Lassiter had told Shawn something about Henry being overly critical, which he absolutely believed, and it hadn't been difficult to notice how much Lassiter hated to be criticized whenever they were working on the same cases, and out came the sharpy-sharp claws if you dared tell him who committed a crime before he got there.

Surprisingly, Henry looked a little uncomfortable at this. “No, well... the fish have been biting really good lately, and we started going a little more often.” He looked at Lassiter, who said nothing. 

Shawn frowned as he looked back and forth between them. “What, Dad? Are you trying to tell me you're going to force me to gut fish tonight instead of having my steak-and-cake?”

“No. And there's no cake this time.”

Shawn groaned. “It's called _steak-and-cake_ night, Dad. Remember how I first wanted drinkable ice cream, and you talked me down to the soul of Betty Crocker slathered in frosting? I have certain expectations, you know. You can't pull this bait-and-switch on me.”

“I didn't have time to make a freaking cake, Shawn!”

He narrowed his eyes. “Because you were gutting fish? Why do I even come here? I don't like eating things that have recently had eyes in them, you know it makes me feel like the dead eye sockets are looking at me.”

“There's steak—they're marinating, and I'm going to put them on as soon as you stop complaining about what you're going to eat and let me tell you something.”

Shawn was confused now. “Something about fishing?”

“No!”

“But you _said_ you were talking about fishing.”

“It's not really about—it's—“ Henry stopped and shook his head. “Look, kid...”

“Will you just _tell_ him, Henry?” Lassiter said wearily.

Henry shot him a look. “I'm trying to.”

“You're not trying very hard. If you want to just let me—“

“He's _my_ son, _I'll_ tell him.”

“Sometime this year?”

“You don't know how he gets,” Henry insisted, and Lassiter shrugged. 

“I don't care, either.”

“Okay, I'm getting the Pictionary set,” Shawn said loudly. 

“You wouldn't need it if you were half the _psychic_ you claimed to be,” Lassiter told him.

“Then I'm getting the Ouija board and asking the spirits what the hell is going on.”

“Carlton and I are—it's more than fishing, Shawn,” Henry said. “We've actually been spending a lot of time together in the last several weeks. Being... together.”

“What, like, Biblically?” Shawn scoffed.

“Pretty much,” Lassiter told his nearly empty drink. “Though I'm fairly confident that the Bible wouldn't have approved.”

“I told you to can it,” Henry snapped, and Lassiter rolled his eyes while putting one hand up.

Shawn's mouth dropped open. “Dad, _what_? You... you and Lassie?” He looked between them, knowing he was goggling and unable to stop. Lassiter just looked back at him, but his father had looked away to the corner of the room, rubbing at the back of his neck. Shawn realized that his dad was nervous, had apparently worked himself up to this, was steeling himself for a fight or an argument or _something_. This had been going on for _months_ , and although Shawn was surprised and a little annoyed that he hadn't figured it out (he'd known there must have been a reason Lassiter had started calling him 'Shawn' more often than simply 'Spencer', but _this_?), he thought it was probable that the main reason Henry had taken so long to tell him, and had apparently forbidden Lassiter to give the slightest hint as well, was that he was waiting to see if it was going to be serious. His father was serious, and in a serious relationship with Lassiter.

Shawn couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. 

Lassiter rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his drink and Henry glared at his son. “I don't see what's so funny, Shawn.”

He quieted down to snickers. “Nothing, I'm sorry.”

“Nothing,” Henry repeated, studying him.

“Well...” He glanced between them again, and tried to stifle another smirk. “I'm sorry, Dad—but you're dating _Lassiter_? I can't help it. That's hilarious. I'm going to make a scrapbook of this so I can never forget. This moment must be commemorated in time.”

“Shut up, Shawn,” Lassiter said. “You're not funny.”

“I'm funny like money, Lassie-bunny,” Shawn assured him, and then he stopped, grimacing. “Okay, you don't get any more nicknames. That's so not my area anymore.”

“Thank god for _something_.”

“So—so you don't have issues with this?” Henry asked skeptically.

Shawn shrugged. “Other than the fact that you two are clearly going to gum my shoes when I'm trying to solve cases, not really. That's why I thought Lassie was here tonight.”

“Why, what are you doing?” Lassiter asked. 

“Nothing,” Shawn said quickly, trying to look innocent. “What are you doing?”

Lassiter smiled a little. “Your dad.”

Shawn shrieked and put his hands over his ears. “Ewww! Bad Lassie! Where's a rolled-up newspaper when you need one?”

“Ron Clark has gone back to taking mine, but I'm going to catch him at it,” Henry vowed. Shawn rolled his eyes and Henry looked uncertain. “So it really doesn't bother you that I'm—uh—“

“Not really. I didn't care to hear about your bedroomily conquests before, and I don't now. Nothing there has changed.” His eyes flicked to Lassiter, who had refilled his drink and was watching them. “ _Absolutely_ nothing. You seriously thought I was going to have a problem if you wanted to date guys?”

“Yes, Shawn!” Henry glared at him. “Excuse me if you've thrown tantrums over _everyone_ I dated since your mother left.”

“Everyone you've dated,” Shawn repeated, and started ticking off his fingers. “Jessica, who wanted to move in after three dates. Christine, who made the possessed car look tame. Amanda, who was smart and funny and interested in police work, but only wanted to see you when you spent money on her. Darlene, who was just trying to get back at her husband for cheating. Sharrie, whose overbearing mother reminded her every five minutes that she was losing time to have kids. Trish, who I actually tried to get along with because you liked her so much and she seemed okay, but who didn't like _me_.” He spread his hands. “How many _bats_ are in the room, Dad?”

“Christine was the one who wanted to go to Hawaii, _Amanda_ was the one who made too many jokes about running over pedestrians and getting points,” Henry corrected.

Shawn snorted. “Yeah, what was it, double if they bounce, three points for children and old people? That's a stupid system—they're the slowest, they should get you the fewest points.” He sighed. “All of those people were women, dad. Blonde women who, to at least some degree, didn't take any of your crap. Let's deduce why it irritated the squiggles out of me when you started seeing them.”

“Because of your mother?” Henry frowned. “Her specifically, not dating in general.”

“I don't know about your 'dating in general', because I didn't want to. All I know is that all of the ones you let get even a little close were all the same.”

“Women that reminded you of your mother.”

Shawn scowled. “None of them even came close to her. It wasn't that they reminded me of her, it was that you were trying to replace her. With women that kind of _looked_ like her and kind of sounded like her.” He glanced at Lassiter, who was still watching silently. “You look _nothing_ like my mom, Lassie, which is a good thing, trust me—there's no way you could pull off platinum perfection.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Lassiter said dryly.

Henry held up a hand. “So... all of this time, since your mother left, that's what was bothering you. Not that I was dating, but because I was dating women that reminded _me_ of your mother.”

“Yup.”

“So—so this whole time, I didn't have to be alone. If I would have dated a man _ten years ago_ , you would have been fine with it.”

Shawn nodded and shrugged again. “Yup. As long as he wasn't anything like Mom.”

“I told you he was going to be fine with it,” Lassiter said to Henry. “And either way, you put entirely too much stock into what he thinks.”

Shawn looked at his father in surprise. “Seriously? Since when have you ever cared what I think?”

Henry shook his head. “I care, Shawn. Just because you're almost always wrong doesn't mean I never consider what you say, or how you act when you're having a problem, especially with me.”

“Children of divorced parents almost always resent their parent's new partners on principle,” Lassiter said. “My sister and I weren't happy when our mother chose someone new, but she lived her own life regardless of what we thought and now she's happy. I'm not at all surprised to hear you threw tantrums like a kindergartner, because you have the emotional makeup of a kindergartner.”

Shawn looked at his dad again. “That reminds me, where's my juice? And what _is_ for dessert, then?”

“Nothing, for you, if you can't be serious for two minutes,” Lassiter told him. Shawn gasped in fake indignation, but Lassie ignored him. “I told him to tell you at least a month ago, but he was sure you would whine and stomp and threaten to hold your breath or something, partly because you have a history of reacting badly to him dating someone, partly because his interest isn't restricted to women, and partly because it was me.”

Shawn gave his dad a look. “Seriously, Dad, Lassie? He's weird. He yelled at the chief when she was in labor, he puts a gallon of cream and half a sugar farm in his coffee, and he wouldn't let me wear his face wig.”

“It was glued on!” Lassiter retorted, and Shawn held a hand out to him as if that proved every point. “And apparently you complain about me a lot.”

Shawn put his nose in the air loftily. “You don't believe in my gift. You don't believe in me. I'm sorry, but we're never going to be besties if you're not only sleeping with my dad, but uninterested in my skills.”

Henry looked at Lassiter and shook his head, then leaned back in his seat, laughing a little in exasperation. “You are such a pain in my ass, Shawn.”

Shawn opened his mouth, closed it, blinked, and then made a face. He started to speak again, and Lassiter leveled a finger at him. “Not one word,” he commanded.

Shawn looked at him a moment, and then he gave him his most beatific smile. “You can't tell me what to do, Lassie,” he said. “You're not my real mom.”

Lassiter let out an annoyed breath and rubbed at the spot between his eyes while Henry shook his head. “Fine,” he said. “You're fine, everything's fine. Dessert is pie, and if you want ice cream on top, you come help me with the steaks.”

“Deal.” 

Shawn followed his father out to the kitchen and carefully removed the marinated hunks of cow from the fridge while his dad got the grill going; in the living room, he saw Lassiter pour himself another drink and sink more comfortably, familiarly into the armchair, opening a case file in his lap. Shawn shook his head, a little like a dog clearing water from its ears, and took the steaks out onto the deck, where his father put them on without looking at him or saying anything. When Henry turned and settled into one of the deck chairs, Shawn took the one next to him, and they gazed out over the lawn. 

“I'm sorry I made you think you had to be alone,” he said after a few minutes. “But to be fair, you had a pattern, and you never indicated at all that you were interested in dudes. I mean... the whole people-being-gay thing. Or bi, whatever. That, like, never came up at _all_.”

“You can't when you're a cop,” Henry said shortly.

“Lassie's a cop.”

Henry gave him a sharp look. “And it's a secret.”

Shawn shrugged. “I won't tell. Not even if he's got his jerkpants on and makes me leave the station when I'm trying to help.” He paused. “You didn't tell him how I... do what I do... did you?”

“No—believe it or not, we don't really spend that much time talking about you.”

“Yeah. I won't tell anyone.” He considered that. “Maybe Gus. It _is_ funny, Dad.”

Henry sighed. “Whatever, Shawn.” It was quiet for another moment, and then he said, very softly, “Thanks, kid.”

Shawn waved that off. “No big, really. For what it's worth, I'm glad you're happy. Lassie is too—I did notice he's been smiling more, less inclined to chew iron rebar and spit out nails. But then you'd just take the nails and build something—don't think I didn't see the new picnic table.”

“I'm going to sell that.”

“Yeah, whatever, you and Lassie are going to get married at the Home Depot, and then Groom #2's side is going to fire off an eighty-seven gun salute.” He snorted. “You know, I actually think you two might be perfect for each other—you both like to gut innocent fish, you both think police work is the most important thing in the universe...”

“Not _the_ most important,” Henry said. Shawn didn't look at him, but he smiled slowly.

.

After Shawn went home (or to drum up whatever mischief and crackpot scheme he was currently working on—he'd have to be blind and stupid to not notice the kid was up to something, yet again), Henry cleaned up the dinner dishes while Carlton made threatening faces at his current case file. Then he went out to the garage to make sure all of the fishing tackle for tomorrow was ready while Carlton huffed in annoyance at his case. He knew it wasn't a murder or kidnapping case because of the number classification in the folder's file tab and because he'd seen half a photo when Carlton had started to spread them out before Shawn arrived, and Henry didn't offer him any help because he didn't ask. When he came back in almost an hour later and found more of the surface of the kitchen table covered in crime scene photos and sheets of notes, Carlton's hair slightly messy from the times he'd run a hand over it, the expression on his face mildly pissy, Henry knew it was past time for him to step back, to just get a night's sleep and go back to it in the morning. Get perspective on it.

“You want to put that away for now, or stay up the whole night pulling at threads?” he asked, phrasing it as a choice, because Carlton was high-powered and didn't like being out of his own control.

He made a disgusted noise and tossed the pen he'd been holding down. “The evidence is _not true_ ,” he said. “I talked to the suspect myself. She didn't steal the equipment.”

Henry sat down beside him and leaned over slightly, his eyes darting from photo to note sheet to evidence list. Carlton folded his arms and sat back, still scowling, and when Henry leaned over a little more, reaching for another photograph, he laid one hand on the other man's knee and squeezed it; Carlton sighed and let his head drop back, but his arms were still folded. He was exhausted, that was obvious, but it was driving him up the wall that he couldn't get a handle on this case. That always drove him nuts, but not always _pissy_. He'd held onto his composure the whole time Shawn was there, even taking most of the kid's smart ass remarks about who was going to take whose last name in the event of—well, that was just stupid. They were both extremely difficult people to live with, and neither kidded himself on that front, and so they hadn't spent much time talking about the future. Henry had taken a big step toward it today, telling Shawn what was going on, but that was really more just because he'd find out eventually anyway, not because of the look Carlton gave him sometimes when he reminded him that Shawn wasn't ready, and not at all because of what Carlton had started saying in the last few weeks—

There. See? You just had to stop staring at something so closely sometimes, and it was right there.

“Janitor,” he said simply, tossing the pile of notes he'd been sifting through on the table.

Carlton blinked. “What?”

“It was the janitor.” He glanced over his shoulder, trying to show only a small amount of disappointment in his disapproving look. “Really, Carlton. _Shawn_ could have told you that.”

Carlton was studying him closely, his normally ice blue eyes slightly narrowed. Well, what the hell did he have to be suspicious of? The evidence was right there, if he only bothered to really think about it. “Shawn did tell me that,” he said after a moment. He paused when Henry held out a hand in lieu of saying, Well, there you go. The kid was obnoxious, but he knew how to look. “I told him he was wasting my time,” Carlton went on.

Henry shrugged. “Too bad, the kid's right. Will you just look?” He snatched up the sheaf of paper again. “The evidence is stocked up against that teacher, but who else had access to it? Who had more motive?” He shifted a few photos to the back of the pile and came up with a certain one, tapping the corner. “Who walks in more sawdust after the kindergarteners ralph in the cafeteria? Who has keys and all-around access to everywhere in the building? _And_ who could easily be there at night without being questioned, without even being noticed. Did _you_ question him?”

“Of course I did.” He paused again. “O'Hara did. I was talking to the teacher whose computer room key we found. They're electronic and require a passcode as well as a key, so I don't see how—“

“You're not seeing it because you're not looking,” Henry reiterated. “Sawdust in the office, accessed by a general set of custodian keys, which is where they store the passcodes. Just because it was her key and her code and she has no alibi doesn't mean no one else is suspect.”

“I know that,” Carlton snapped. “A councilman's kid goes to this school—he's the one that donated the computer equipment in the first place, and he's been screaming for that teacher's arrest since yesterday. It was all I can do to keep her out of jail by pulling on my experience with Vick and getting her to believe _I_ don't believe it was her.”

Henry shrugged. “Well, there you go. Janitor. Like Shawn said. It wouldn't kill you to give him more than half a second sometimes.”

“It might,” Carlton said. “He said he got his information from, and I quote, 'Day-old toast made by the school ghost'.”

Henry rolled his eyes and shook his head. “That I got nothing on.”

“Are you sure?”

He had been starting to get up, to begin cleaning up the papers from the table so that they could go to bed, but at Carlton's tone, Henry looked at him carefully, only to find that Carlton was already giving him the same look. “The kid is drawn to rhymes,” he said. “I can't account for half the crap he says.”

“What about the other half?”

“What are you getting at, Carlton?”

Carlton had folded his hands on the tabletop and was looking at him blandly; Henry narrowed his eyes, recognizing an interrogation room posture. “What do you think I'm getting at, Henry?”

Henry pointed at him. “Don't pull that shit with me. I was busting dopeheads when you were in junior high.”

“Uh huh,” Carlton said. “And were you psychic then, too? Or has it worn off? Or was it passed down to your son when he was born?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He tells me he solves a case via 'the spirits', and then you give me the same conclusion not twelve hours later—only you arrived there by going through my case file and picking up a blurred bit of reddish dust to deduce your way to the janitor.” He paused again, and Henry didn't like the sour smile on his face. “That's how he does it. Isn't it?” He snorted. “I've been saying he was a fake since the beginning. All the times he does that little dance and rolls his eyes around, that's what he's doing—finding some almost insignificant _piece_ of a clue and jumping around until it makes sense. Did you teach him all of it—the song and dance and the cover? Or just how to get the answer?”

“You really don't know anything if that's what you think is going on,” Henry snapped and got up from the table. He went to the fridge to get a beer and slammed the door too hard.

“Of course. He really is psychic, and the fact that you can do the same thing is merely coincidence,” Carlton said dryly.

“Hey.” Henry spread his hands. “I'm supposed to apologize for being a better detective than you are?”

Low blow, sure. But offense almost always works better than defense, and it wasn't like it wasn't true. Carlton was a great detective; Henry was just better.

“No,” Carlton said. “But you might want to think about apologizing for condoning your son's manipulation of the police department as a fake.”

Henry took a long pull of his beer while he considered that. It was one of the biggest ways they were different: Carlton held the party line that the department and everyone within was always correct, just, righteous before anything else. It was usually a good thing. Henry tended to think that things were only right when they were actually right, not because of what or who they were.

“What my son does is good,” he said at last. “How many cases has he solved that you and the rest of the force couldn't touch?”

“That doesn't—“

“Matter, yes it does.” Henry didn't care if his phrasing made him sound like Yoda, if that's who Shawn and Gus had pretended to be for two weeks when they were eight. “It matters a hell of it a lot. I love you, Carlton, but I love my son too, and if you're even thinking of—“ He stopped at once when Carlton blinked and looked astonished. “What?” he demanded. “The kid is annoying, but he's _my_ kid, and he's _finally_ found a place in life where he can use what he has and do far more good than harm. You have no idea what it's like to try to raise someone like him, and then to watch him spin and spin and never land. He's landed back home, and no matter the headache, Psych is the best thing that ever happened to him. You understand?”

“Yes,” Carlton said, very softly. 

Henry narrowed his eyes at him. That was too easy. “You do.”

“Yes.” Carlton's eyes were no longer bitterly amused, no longer sharp—they were soft, almost wondering. “You said... you love me.”

There was a long, silent moment in which they both stared at each other. Henry frowned and dropped his eyes first, checking the born on date of his beer. “Figured you knew that,” he said gruffly. “Especially when I finally agreed to tell Shawn about us.”

“You haven't said it,” Carlton said gently.

Henry looked up and saw that he did indeed know it, which was good—some people just weren't the type to... to say things. But they could show them. Carlton had first said it a month ago. He'd said it five times since, and each time Henry hadn't been able to speak, but Carlton had seemed to understand. He'd tried to show it instead, at least he'd tried to try. Sometimes it didn't come through, and sometimes the trying, or the showing, wasn't enough. “Well, it's true,” he said to his beer after another moment. He looked up again when he heard the kitchen chair scrape back, and then Carlton was in front of him, smiling, leaning down to kiss him. Henry didn't like the taste of Scotch, but then, Carlton didn't really like the taste of beer. They made it work.

Carlton sighed softly when he pulled back enough to stand upright again, and in that sound Henry knew it was going to be fine. He still had to make sure, though, because no matter what he said, no matter what he showed, Shawn in any kind of danger still came first.

“Thank you for saying it,” Carlton said quietly. “It means a lot to me.”

Henry looked into his face steadily. “What I said about the kid is true, too.”

“Don't care about the kid.” Carlton took Henry's beer from his hands and set it on the counter. “Let's go to bed... Detective.”

“Still on top of you,” Henry muttered, leaning over the table to pull all of the case notes and photos into a pile.

“If you like,” Carlton said unconcernedly, hands on his thin hips as he waited near the doorway.

Henry decided to leave the case—it was solved, anyway. They went upstairs, where he liked. Okay... loved.


End file.
